Times When I was Little that I Thought I was Molested But Actually Wasn't

1. At daycare, B.'s little brother who was my age. He did not know how to fasten his pants back up after the bathroom. He waddled into the playroom, concerned. I looked away out the window. Dirty foods by memory-association: apple juice, cheerios, and hot dogs without the bun.

2. Always my play-friends' little bothers. At R.'s house. I was five and leaving to go home. He was two and busted in naked. This mother laughed at him hugging me-- but me, a baby and brother-less, was shocked into red silence. I could not go back to that house which was blue/gray painted wood which was my favorite type of house. I did not tell my mother.

3. At the neighborhood pool. I was seven. He was K.'s stepbrother (back when I think, divorce and remarriage was still new and strange for me). He was six and this was on purpose. We were playing Marco Polo, and he squeezed my butt. The move was too confident and precise to be a blind and desperate gesture. I noticed also that his mother smoked cigarettes. Through naivety and upbringing, I associated the two evils as probably related. No one else I knew smoked besides my Godmother, whom I loved deeply. I did not go to the pool with K. again.

Epilogue.

In fifth grade, we had a puppet show to tell us about abuse. We were instructed that if someone touched us in embarrassing places that we should tell an adult we trusted. I burned for days with guilt for not speaking up. And for many years, I worked hard to convince myself that these events never happened.